But I Burn, Mr A
by Pirate Gibberish
Summary: A few months after the declaration is signed. Adams is asleep. Dickinson is long gone. Or so everyone thinks.


My first 1776 fanfiction! Adams/Dickinson.

Critique is quite welcome. I feel like it's vastly different from my Pirates of the Caribbean story. xD

* * *

John Adams was torn from his dreamless sleep by a barely audible, tentative knocking at his door. He let his eyes flutter open, silent and unmoving; the knocking had ceased, and he thought for a moment that he'd merely imagined it. Then he heard it again: a mere whisper of thumps against the wooden door. He sighed softly to himself, wondering who in God's name was calling on him this late at night, and slowly eased himself from the warmth of his blankets. The freezing cold of his floorboards bit at his bare feet as he blindly fumbled for a match in the pitch black. When at long last he managed to light a candle and pull open the door to his cramped, one-room Philadelphia apartment, he found no one there. Feeling peeved that somebody had seen fit to disturb him at this ungodly hour and run off without a single word, John stepped into the darkened High Street. Holding the flickering candle in front of him, though it helped very little, he struggled to peer through the darkness. To his surprise he saw something: a dark figure walking away from him, a good distance down the street, hardly distinguishable in the blackness but there all the same. 

"Stop!" He yelled to the retreating stranger as loudly as he dared, for fear of waking the sleeping people of Philidelphia. He could just barely see that the figure had paused, and felt relief. At least he could give the mysterious person a piece of his mind. Who bothers sleeping men in the middle of the night, only to turn tail and run? John stood in the middle of the road, shivering in nothing but his chemise, as the figure slowly approached. The man spoke before John could see his face through the darkness.

"Good evening, Mr. Adams," the man said softly, stepping into the candlelight.

"It's hardly evening anymore you no-good son of a-" his voice failed him, the words dying in a pathetic gurgle deep in his throat. Standing before him, wrapped in a heavy coat and wearing an unreadable expression, was John Dickinson. John Dickinson, who Adams hadn't seen since July. Dickinson, who was supposed to be in the army, fighting for a cause he didn't believe in. Dickinson, who John hadn't stopped thinking about for six months. He felt his jaw fall open, and found that he couldn't close it. He stood, unmoving, unspeaking, completely bewildered, in front of the man who'd haunted his thoughts for years. The man who Adams hated and loved beyond comprehension. Neither man said a word for what seemed to John like an eternity. They simply stared at each other, until Dickinson finally spoke.

"You're freezing," he hissed through clenched teeth, indicating with the slightest movement of his grey eyes that Adams was wearing naught but his dressing gown. It was at that moment that John was lifted from his stupor. He shook his head slightly and let his blue eyes meet the cold grey of Dickinson's.

"What?" he demanded, his voice sharp and a bit higher than usual. Though he'd taken in Dickinson's voice, enjoying its smooth familiarity, he hadn't registered what had been said at all.

"It's January. You're standing outside, and you're barely dressed. I can see you shivering. You're freezing, and you should go inside. And I suggest you invite me to follow you," Dickinson explained cooly, his voice and face still blank.

"Right," Adams mumbled distractedly, not wanting to break away from Dickinson's gaze. He turned reluctantly and forced his numb legs to carry him the few steps into his apartment. "Come in," he added over his shoulder, his voice stronger since he'd given himself a chance to reign in his frenzied thoughts and collect himself. "And shut the door." He stepped quickly around the chamber, lighting various lamps with the candle in his hands. Dickinson, having shut and latched the heavy door, was leaning against it, watching Adams intently. When all the lamps were lit and the room was glowing softly Adams' movements screeched to a halt. He spun around and stared at Dickinson, trembling with cold and completely unsure of what to do. There was too much confusion boiling in his mind for rational thought.

"What are you doing here?" he blurted, disregarding etiquette for rabid curiosity. Dickinson allowed a small smile and stepped forwards, his movements sure and liquid, until he was standing in front of Adams.

"Dress," he ordered. "I'll start a fire." John shook his head, but since Dickinson had already turned and knelt in front of the fireplace, he had no choice but to comply. His bare feet ached as he stepped across the hard floor to the chair which he'd thrown his clothes over earlier that evening. After slipping his arms through his waistcoat, John struggled to pull his breeches on with fingers still numb from the cold, and fumbled with the buttons for several minutes before Dickinson approached him, a fire roaring to life behind him, wordlessly reached towards his chest, and took up the task. John felt his body tense as Dickinson's hands calmly fastened the buttons of his waistcoat, moving slowly down the length of his chest and abdomen. He couldn't breath. It felt so terribly odd: Dickinson, who hated him, in his apartment, helping him dress, dodging any explaination of why he was back in Philadelphia. And at the same time it made John's entire body tingle with that mysterious feeling he'd been trying to ignore for God knows how long. When Dickinson reached his waist Adams felt a shiver run through his body, but the cold had nothing to do with it. Dickinson's fingers were flickering dangerously closer to John's crotch with every button, until they were on top of it. John, who had been staring intently over Dickinson's shoulder, trying his hardest to remain composed, lost control and let the slightest moan slip from between his lips. He felt Dickinson's hands stop moving, and instantly froze. His mind tangled as he struggled to think of something, anything to say to cover his tracks. Until he realized that Dickinson's hand was still resting on his groin. He let his eyes meet Dickinson's, and found that the man's unreadable expression had become quite understandable, for it mirrored the very same emotions that were smouldering inside John's chest. Adams' eyes widened and his jaw fell open once more. Dickinson simply smiled and closed the distance between them. For a moment Adams couldn't move. His mind locked up, as if paralyzed by the realization of his long-denied desire. But then his entire body relaxed, and he gave in to the kiss. Dickinson parted John's lips with his tongue and, almost roughly, explored the inside of his mouth. Adams closed his eyes, wishing that he could stay like this forever, with Dickinson's body pressed against his and Dickinson's sweet taste in his mouth. He wrapped his arms around the taller man's neck, tangling his fingers in the long mane of hair tied back with a length of olive ribbon. It seemed impossible to him that he could hate this man so much, and have this fiery love flaming inside him at the same time. When Dickinson pulled away Adams found himself gasping for breath. He wanted to say something, anything. He wanted to tell Dickinson how he felt, every minute detail of his love and hate and desire, but what came out was entirely different.

"Why did you come back?" he asked quickly, lost in Dickinson's flickering eyes.

"Because," Dickinson answered softly, placing his hands on Adams hips and pulling the man tightly against him. "I burn, Mr. A."


End file.
